The Failed Expedition
by LoamLapse
Summary: There had been rumors that the heir was growing restless, quiet whispers spreading word of his frustration with the slow progress of his campaign to reclaim and restore the lands of his lineage. There were even worries his desperation might lead to brash, reckless decisions. Such as the order to take back the manor and delve within it's depths. (End game spoilers)
1. Say die

_March, you worthless old bastard!_

A pair of boots once so shiny and well-kept were stained with blood and Light only knows what else. Arduous grunts and  
laboured breathing were a constant reminder that he hadn't been young for decades now.

The moss welcomed the man-at-arms as his knee buckled under the weight. His lungs burned like he was being hanged,  
the old rapier wound he'd received in Troyes over a wench's favor felt like it was about to tear open and the arms that had once lifted the carcass  
of a fallen horse off of a pinned comrade's legs felt feeble and powerless as the burden bent over his shoulder threatened to slip loose.

A little behind him, one of his band called for him.

"Caunter!?"

Dudley reached him, holding the weight on his back upright just long enough that the older man could catch his breath and straighten his legs.  
Sodbury growled menacingly at something in the darkness, the faithful hound's tail stiff and tucked between it's legs. Apart from the rough start with the rosbif, the old veteran couldn't have been happier with his given companion.

A greedy, hypocritical prick, the first impressions he'd had of the englishman had been what he'd come to expect from the people of the kingdom across the canal.  
That had been, until roughly a week later a forage into the ruins surrounding the manor had lead to the death of the small band Caunter had been leading down there to cull the unholy ranks of the reanimated corpses.

Foolishly they had tried to clear a blockage of stone with haste and carelessness to breach one of the rooms marked as treasuries in the map, only to find the cave-in had not been merely that, but the very pillar holding up the stones above their heads. Stuck under the rubble and struggling in the darkness for hours, he had been forced to listen to the maddening moaning of the rotters and the indecipherable gibbering of the madmen that worshipped them.

He had never considered himself a praying man, but in his desperation he had submitted himself to the Light for salvation. After an hour his prayers were answered when he had seen the light, watched it inch itself along the walls, closer and closer to him. Before he could even see the torch rounding the corner,  
a shadow had quickly sprinted to him, the tail-wagger licking his face eagerly. That one merchantwoman in his group had apparently crawled out of the wreckage, not even bothering to find out if anyone else had survived it. A selfish rat if he'd ever seen one, she'd even taken their supplies with her back to the Hamlet.

Dudley on the other hand had sprung into action immediately upon hearing of the collapse, gathering a small group of volunteers to find survivors and turn the dead ones' pockets. Soon he had arrived with another excavation team and plenty of shovels, that blessed mutt's keen sense of smell leading them to him. Dudley was someone you could trust to watch your back during a skirmish it seemed. Men like him were few and far between in this crusade.

"Caunter, we cannot stop!" The man's broken, english-accented french was even less comprehendable than usually now that he was panting.

Sodbury started barking, only the years of training imposed upon the beast by the houndmaster keeping the frightened animal from bolting in one direction or the other.  
If it couldn't fight or flee, at the very least it was going to make it's herd very aware of the encroaching horrors of the weald. A shot rang out in the distance behind them.

 _No. No resting. Cannot. Won't. Have to march._

The old man grunted loudly, securing the unconscious man from falling off him. Exertion ached his muscles as he rose up from the mossy bank, his short break may have not recovered him his strength but he'd be damned if they'd lose another man tonight. Another shot in the dark, this time closer. Caunter turned around to glance behind him.

There was movement in the treeline past the clearing.  
It didn't take long before the pistoleer stumbled into the clearing, eyes widened in panic. Shortly behind him their vestal, Bonner, crashed through the bushes, landing on all fours as she scrambled to get back up.

"DUDLEY! SIE KOMMEN!" Stieber screamed. Caunter didn't need to wait for a translation, as a dozen figures shuffled past the treeline into the pale moonlight. Hideous, contorted forms of creatures that may have once been human were now covered all over by growths and fungi. The sickening tint of their yellow skin was the only reason the one-eyed veteran could even see them from this far.

The first and fastest of the horrors, a man scurrying on all fours with a large pulsating sack of flesh on his back reached Bonner. Before either Dudley or Caunter could shout a warning, the woman gritted her teeth and spun around, her trusty mace falling down upon the skull of her pursuer. There was not even a crack or a squelch, the head simply caved in on impact like an overripe pear. The vestal quickly twisted away, shielding her mouth and nose from the greenish yellow cloud of smoke that exploded out of her crushed foe.

"ICH GEH- I'M GOING BACK TO VILLAGE TO GET HELP!" Their houndmaster yelled something foul after the fleeing highwayman, but he was already gone.

Muttering his anglicisms and foreign swears under his breath Dudley unhooked the baton from his belt and let out a few short whistles.  
Sodbury, up until now standing ready with it's body held low, rushed forward with explosive immediacy, tackling one of the shambling grotesgueries to the ground.  
Another, longer whistling cut across the air and obediently the hound jumped off it's victim, backing away from the horde that had just become interested in the dog.

Bonner stopped in her tracks, facing yet another of the sickly creatures.

"THE LIGHT IS MY SHIELD AND I AM IT'S SWORD!" She shouted hysterically as she swung her mace into whatever passed for a head on the walking corpse shuffling towards her.

The momentum of the hit sent the creature sprawling on the loam and while the fiend tried to get back up on it's feet, a couple more marched over it to take it's place.  
Dudley pushed back one of the things before giving another whistle to his faithful companion. They'd managed to split their enemy, but they were all exhausted from earlier, physically and mentally.

They wouldn't last long if they just fought them.

Caunter gasped as he nearly lost his footing on the slippery rocks of the stream. He'd have happily joined his friends in this fight, but the bout was merely to buy time for him.  
What they faced now were unspeakable horrors to the common man. But after a few trips to that cove, the warrens and finally, what ever Light-forsaken hellrealm they had stumbled into today, these things were not hard to comprehend, or to combat. Atleast these ones stopped moving once you hit them hard enough, atleast for a short while. Long enough that you could make an escape.

Turning away from the fight, the old soldier quickly shifted his shoulders to make sure his unconscious ally wouldn't be slipping loose during the hike to the Hamlet.

 _Boivin._ It wasn't surprising they'd chosen him for the carrying duty. Bonner was surprisingly strong for a woman of faith, but not strong enough to carry an  
armored man for a mile. Dudley had the same problem and Stieber... well, putting your trust on that cowardly cutthroat wasn't all that great of an idea.

"And the moment I lost my shield and bludgeon, it was no longer a debate." He chuckled bitterly inbetween the panting, not expecting a reply. "Think you could wake up soon, Boivin?"  
The unconscious bountyhunter groaned atop of him, a welcome sign. _Atleast he's not dead._ He'd promised Bonner and Dudley that Boivin would be safe. A promise he wanted to keep for more than his own honor's sake.

The two of them and that mutt could keep the horrors busy long enough that he'd reach the side of the Hamlet, before falling back. They were younger and faster than him, they could take the longer route around the clearing. Bonner and that rosbif would be just fine.

 _But will I be?_

The dim lights of the distant Hamlet shined through the woods, but the promise of safety did not outmatch the dread he felt when he heard it.

 _Snapping of the twigs, the rustling of the underbrush, sounds of pursuit._ Converging on him. Something was following him.

More snapped twigs made him turn around to glance at the forest that was, other than his pursuer, silent as the grave. Staring into the trees behind him, the moonlight just barely illuminated the area,  
but the motion caught his good eye easily enough. He saw yellow. That one shade he had particularly come to loathe whenever he had the displeasure of touring these forests.

 _No. Not pursuer. Pursuers_.

After just a few of the fungal abominations came into his view, he let out a weary sigh. The denizens of the weald were nothing if not determined.  
He grunted loudly as he pushed himself through the foliage onto the road veering by the forest, a straight line to the hamlet, but by no means safe haven. Not for several hundred metres.

 _March you miserable git!_

The feeling of the cobblestones of the road was pleasant compared to the guesswork and caution he had to put in every step as he'd trampled his way through the darkness of the forest,  
but he could hear that same easiness in the steps that came from behind him. The forest slowed them down just barely, but at the very least back in there they'd kept their distance, if only because the blind monsters must have been  
tripping and falling over every single obstacle mother nature could put in their path. Now those steps were slowly gaining on him. Now he could almost hear their whispers and hissing as they slowly covered the distance between their target.

 _The Hamlet's right there. Keep going. Keep him safe. March._

His muscles begged him to stop. The hellfire scorching his lungs was agonizing, his old heart felt like it was trying to burst out of his chest. The cold air he inhaled held a distinct tang of copper.

 _No. You'll rest in the Hamlet, you useless old man. Now you'll march._

 **"A-AH!"** He yelped in surprise as something barreled into his backside. As he fell forward, Boivin landed rough onto the cobblestones right infront of him.

Even if his most capable years had gone and passed him, his reflexes were just as sharp as they once were, forcing him to get off the floor in to a kneeling crouch. He turned around to find himself staring down in to the eyeless sockets  
of a travesty whose resemblance to the person it had once been was now but an insult to that poor soul. Caunter rose from his knees, patting the side of his belt before the reality of the situation dawned to him.

He was unarmed and it wasn't alone. Barely a stone's throw behind it, two others of it's kind limped towards him slowly on their gangly, diseased limbs.  
The old tactician wondered just what exactly he could do here. He struggled to catch his breath.

 _I could hold them off. It wouldn't be a bad death._

It would be an unpleasant one however, not to mention probably pointless. He wasn't keeping his hopes up about the highwayman returning with those reinforcements.  
He was on his own. The creature infront of him seemed to tense what remained of it's muscles, looking like it was about to make another leap.

 **"** **HRAAAH!** " He yelled as his fist reeled and burst forward, hoping the desperate haymaker hurt his opponent even a quarter of what it had hurt his hand.

The horror shook but didn't fall. It gave a low hiss before it lunged at him a second time, it's lanky arms groping for his head. The old soldier shielded his face with his left arm, shifting the creatures balance by diverting it's lunge to his side. With a grunt he pushed hard into the creature's wide open side with his right shoulder, barely managing to stay standing from his own tackle. Same could not be said of the creature as it fell down on it's arse, unhurt but dazed.  
Standing over it, he brought his boot down hard on the thing's neck. Once. Twice. He lost count after that.

It's mangled limbs tried to grab his leg in futile retaliation, but after a few more presses and a sickening squelch, to his pleasant surprise the creature's body went limp.

Caunter quickly returned to his companion, dragging the man with all that remained of his strenght. If they could just get within shouting distance of the Hamlet, they would get help. Backpedaling while dragging the bountyhunter by his armpits, he had an excellent view of the enemy. A view perhaps a bit too close for his liking. In a matter of seconds the two walkers would reach their fallen brother,  
who had already begun lazily twitching as the fungus within that wretched being worked to mend the battered cervical vertebrae.

Truthfully he hadn't even been aiming at paralyzing the creature, he had simply meant to hamper it's breathing so it wouldn't catch them quite so soon.  
Lucky for him that these creatures were so sickly, had it not been disabled, he'd have received an unkind reminder that not all the things they fought drew breath.

 ** _\- BANG! -_**

He ducked after hearing the gunshot from behind him. The creature closest to him twitched as the round punched a hole in it's chest, but other than taking a second to stop, it appeared unaffected.

"STIEBER!?" He shouted over his shoulder. He kept his head low as the air whizzed slightly over him. A bolt struck into the bulging head of the shambler, embedding itself right up to it's feathered tail, but once again the creature didn't seem to mind injury as it strode onwards.  
His heart raced as suddenly Boivin grunted and made an attempt at getting up.

"Hah! It seems there are miracles, though I am no saint." Caunter laughed.

They stopped for a second, just long enough to get Boivin on his feet. Another shot rang, this time close enough he could tell it wasn't a mere pistol.  
With a heave he lifted the injured man's arm over his own neck, his other hand working to grab him by the armpit. Boivin wasn't contributing to the walking as much as he could have been, but atleast he could follow a lead. They were still slower than the creatures breathing down their necks,  
but perhaps the small increase in speed would be just enough.

Something whizzed past their heads and judging by the fluttering of the air the projectile had been larger than a simple bolt. He knew better than to turn around and slow himself down to find out, though. Whatever it was, the clattering and the loud smack told him it had not only hit but also tipped over it's target and that's all that mattered to him.

 _So close. Don't stop. Rest. Not yet. Soon._ He panted and grunted as he steeled himself for the final hundred metres. The lights of the Hamlet shed light upon his saviors, revealing them.

A little over- a dozen or so of the villagers armed with pitchforks and axes, they did not interest him. No.

The ones leading their charge did. Another shot from the musket momentarily lit up the face of the redheaded woman in adorned leather regalia. Her slouch hat shook from the kickback of the long rifle.

On her right, another woman ran past her, clad in almost as heavy armor as he was himself. The two sharpshooters and their mob rushed towards him, reaching him about the same time as the fiend did.

He could hear his well-worn armor creak as the creature grabbed him from behind, pulling him backwards, but before it could bring him offbalance, the musketeer had sidestepped on next to him, brandishing her sidearm. Being so close to the firing end of her flintlock, the gunshot was deafening.  
Caunter gritted his teeth at the ringing in his ears. The bullet punched a hole into the creature's face, and while the shot yet again failed to drop it, it did seem to take some displeasure from the injury, reeling back and letting out a sibilant hiss as it's arms let loose of Caunter's backside. The peasants and townsfolk flowed past him,  
stabbing, smacking and stomping the downed creature in a frenzy. A couple of them stopped and stared at the man by Caunter's side.

They muttered something or other, before a dark skinned woman pushed herself through their ranks to Boivin and him.

"Shut your traps and let me tend to him!" The woman they'd come to call the arbalest shouted, the origin of her accent still as much of a mystery to him as it had been the first day they'd fought together.

She laid Boivin down on the mud, checking him for signs of bleeding, before motioning a few of the men around her to carry him back to the sanitarium. They did not look happy to be taking orders from her but followed them without a delay. A survivor of many bouts, the authoritative tone of her voice rivaled even Caunter's own. With Boivin out of the way, she stepped over to the old soldier, her eyes roaming all over his frame, before a satisfied smile appeared on her face.

"How're you feeling?" While asking this, she quickly checked his pupils.

"Burned out like a candle." He replied inbetween the attempts to catch his breath. Not just physically, he had seen enough horrors to last a lifetime earlier today. He wouldn't return there ever again.  
As he tried to get up, the arbalest's hand came down on his shoulder, the other appearing from behind her back, pushing a waterskin into his shaking hands.

"Stop pushing yourself, you're safe." She barked. It took him a few moments to realize the sounds of fighting had subsided, the frenzied slicing and angry shouting had declined into the occasional half-hearted swing the townsfolk took to keep the fungal horrors from getting back up. A few of them were carrying logs. They were already readying the pyre to dispose of them with. Dropping his shoulders, he indulged himself to a sip of the cold water.

"Thank you." He let out, relief palpable in his ragged voice.

"I think I owe the two of you a stiff drink. Stieber too." He watched as the workers and farmers carried the wood into the pile,  
while occasionally in the back someone's axe or shovel raised and lowered upon their stubborn enemy, the poor souls would have to wait a few more minutes before their inhuman torment would come to an end. The redheaded gunner was helping with the construction of the makeshift inferno. In the back, he also spotted a few other familiar faces, but the german was nowhere to be found.

"Where's Stieber?" He queried. The crossbow-woman lifted her gaze from her trusty weapon that she had been inspecting.

"I don't know, I last saw him ten minutes ago." She said.

"When he ran past me in the tavern, up the stairs. Once he returned from his room with a bag, I asked him where he was going. Said that you people had forgotten to bring enough food for your trip."  
Caunter let out a bitter laugh that the dark skinned woman joined into with an amused smile, no doubt having figured out what was going on.

He rose up from the mud, leaning onto the arbalest's shoulder in support as they started to slowly walk towards the Hamlet's gates. Looking into the crowds passing them, every few moments Caunter thought he had caught a glimpse of some unnoticed enemy amongst them, but whenever he focused his gaze the sight was quickly unseen. It must have been the adrenaline.

"I heard a rumor your lot went deeper than anyone else. What did you find?"

Oh how he wished he could forget that damnable place. Just thinking about it made his heart pound in his chest out of fear. The entrance was less than a furlong under the manor, but behind that massive gate was an impossibly large city,  
whose crimson pillars had reached higher than any man-made structure could dare to ever dream of. Just walking there had felt wrong, but then they'd started exploring the twists and turns of that horrifying, blood soaked labyrinth.  
The old tactician had always recorded his paths in these places on paper ever since he had gotten lost in the warrens that one time, but when he had tried to map out those cursed corridors, the paths traveled had seemed impossible on paper, diverging and converging through each other with no change in elevation.

He had given up trying to make sense of the place after trying to use one of the walls as an easel to hold his paper on, only to realize the paper had bent upon it in an unnerving angle. He returned to the situation, realizing he had been walking in silence for a good minute now. The arbalest noticed his return as well.

"I see. How many did you lose?" She sighed. He thought he'd never catch himself thinking this, but considering the magnitude of that city and it's horrifying inhabitants, them losing just two people in there was not only acceptable, it was a miracle.

"We lost Reynauld. Ferdinand too." He replied crestfallen. The woman gave a disappointed, weary sigh. Reynauld had been one of the first,  
the spearhead of this crusade against the dark forces seeping from under that manor. Yet, just like that, the man had lost his footing and fallen into the depths of that place,  
never to be heard of again. A death befitting of an untrained whelp perhaps, but not him. Just goes to show that no one is immortal, least of all those of us who seek their deaths...

 _Ferdinand._ He was gone too. The leper on the other hand had died a death worth one of those songs the drunkards bellowed offtone by the nights. That probably wouldn't be much for conciliation to the poor man though.  
He'd never much spoken with the disfigured warrior, but the few talks they had reflected an unexpectedly wise and positive look on life. Such a pity he had to die in such a place.

The man's final words spoken before his sacrifice still clung to Caunter's mind.

The way he had turned to look at the congregation of mad cultists and twisted horrors rushing towards them, just a stone's throw away, before casting aside the mask that had for years covered his hideous features.  
Caunter remembered vividly the way Ferdinand's face had twisted into a somber smile as he stepped on the other side of the almost closed gateway.

 _"_ _How I have longed to die... And yet now I long to survive."_ His bitter chuckling was soon drowned in the sounds of his efforts as he began pushing the doors shut with all his might.

Just before the two heavy slabs of metal had met, the man shouted an agonized taunt to the horde behind him.

 _ **"**_ _ **COME THEN, LET US TRADE WOUNDS! I WON'T LEAVE THIS LIFE AS THE MOST SCARRED CR-"**_

Then the gates had closed with a loud crash, the tolling bell of the leper's death sentence echoing in the dark chamber for what had felt like a small eternity.  
The leper had certainly served his duty exceedingly, and as the man-at-arms watched the physicians rush over to help Boivin, he knew he had too. His heart warmed up.

"Need to sit down and rest a bit, old timer?" The arbalest asked, though the jeer lacked actual malice. The old man didn't respond, simply clenching his eyes shut.

 _Yes._

"Caunter?" She asked again, this time with increased urgency. He didn't let out a word as his legs failed him. He did not even bother to groan.  
 _  
You have done well, soldier._

"CAUNTER?!"

 _Rest now._

/-/

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed this, six or seven people reading this, I certainly did writing it. I think it's rather odd that a game like this has so few stories written of it here, but then again, perhaps while the material lends itself well to a few certain  
types of a story, those story types really don't interest enough people that they'd write something for it? Oh well, hope to see some more written for this particular game, preferrably finished too. **

**Funny thing, I was a bit iffy about having the Musketeer appear during this chapter, as I was not sure how the community feels about the character as a whole, do they consider her canon, is she frowned upon because she is a  
class exclusive to backers? I didn't even know about the particular class of hero, until I looked up a list of all of them in an effort to figure out who else other than the Arbalest I could introduce during the road scene as long range support.  
**

 **But anyways, I simply got an interest in writing a bit about Darkest Dungeon after finally reaching... The Darkest Dungeon. Or rather, finally having heroes with high enough level that I could atleast hope they'd survive past a room. I really ended up liking the first mission and wanted to write something with a bit of combat, a view of the life in Hamlet and something vague about the 4th final mission of the game,  
though perhaps my interpretation of the place is a bit more... grand than what it actually is shown in game.**

Thinking back to it, I'm fairly sure the place actually had a roof, but hey, alien geometries and stuff. Those pillars can poke the sky even if they are underground. Boggles the mind and all that jazz.

Another chapter coming soon enough.


	2. Work for idle hands

/-/

"I count the beads."

"I kneel."

"I recite thy sacred instructions."

"Please."

"Protect me."

"Guide me."

"Please." The voice cracked.

"Let me forget." A single tear rolled down the woman's cheek. The first of many.

"Blind me, Light." She begged.

/-/

Dudley looked on as the once proud vestal's ritual was reduced into quiet sobbing. Bonner had always been one of their strongest minds. When the torches grew cold and the enemy innumerable, one could always count on her to relight the fires of hope in their hearts with her knowledge of the verses and her conviction. But there she was, kneeling with her upper half bent over the altar, muttering and weeping into the ragged old doily. For but a moment the houndmaster wondered if he should try and comfort the woman, but how could he?

He had no idea what the four of them had seen when they ventured past that archaic, decrepit black gateway, but in his experience sharing the horrors and talking about them didn't make them any lesser of a burden for the ones who had been forced to witness them, and what's worse, sharing them just spread fear and uneasiness amongst the ranks.

 _At it's worst?_ Well, every few weeks the inn keeper had to close off one of the rooms for clean-up.

Sighing, the man walked out of the church, heading towards the graveyard. It had grown quite a big since the day he had arrived in the Hamlet. With that cheery thought, the englishman felt his throat rather dry. A bit of wine wouldn't go amiss soon. Not like he'd be called for duty in the upcoming days, despite the man's infamous temper and growing impatience with the "lack" of progress in clearing the lord's lands, the nobleman was amiable enough to letting his hired help rest a good number of days between their assignments.

His faithful companion turned it's head slightly as it's master headed towards the dull gray slabs. Realizing where the man was going, the mutt slumped down by the rusted iron gate, letting out a frustrated yawn. Dudley had told the abbot time after time that the dog was obedient and smart enough not to defile the graves, but he wouldn't listen and without the abbot's permission he wouldn't let his hound here.

Causing animosity between the mercennaries and the denizens of the Hamlet wasn't smart lest you wished to wake up with a rusty shank embedded in you. The latter already had a rather poor view of the flighty, whoremongering drunks that had proven about as mentally stable as those patients that kept running off into the ruins. Oh how he hated herding the fools, it was stressful enough to walk those dark and decrepit hallways, but the mumbling and the screams of those loons really set his teeth on edge.

Whether they found the madmen dead or alive, they could always count on getting cold glares and dissatisfied muttering as their prize for the deed from the forever ingrateful inhabitants of the Hamlet. Them Dudley hated even more than the loons.

Caunter on the other hand seemed to get along fine with the people of Hamlet, perhaps his efforts in the wars far away from here had earned him the respect of his countrymen even in a backwater settlement such as this. Or perhaps the man's refusal to gamble or visit the brothel made him look sane and decent compared to his comrades, who knew.

 _Perhaps it was his endless patience with them._

The man always seemed to have limitless strenght both in and out of combat. Bit ironic when that birdmasked doctor had declared the cause of death to have been exhaustion.

Standing over the still open grave, Dudley could see his friend, all but his feet wrapped and covered in one of the taverns bedsheets deemed too dirty to be washed again. The sheet was soaked from yesterday's drizzle. His funeral had been held just hours after his death. The caretaker wouldn't be finishing the grave before he'd have his visit in the tavern, which wouldn't be opening it's doors until the owner would remove the barricades he put up so he could drown himself in his merchandise in the peace of his musty old cellar.

Such was life here in the Hamlet. To quote Dudley's father: _"Nobody can be bloody arsed here."_

Dudley had never been one to talk much knowing his french was far from perfect, but even in his native tongue he couldn't find anything he would want to say to his friend. Instead, he simply stared at the hole in the upturned soil. Caunter hadn't been particularly religious, though after he'd dragged him out of the ruins half-dead he had prayed for a few months. Not like Dudley would have done any of the rituals.

 _The dead need nothing._ it was the living the funerals were for as far as he was concerned. Caunter would understand. _Speaking of which..._

Yes, Caunter's room was still yet to be cleared. Most of his armor, weaponry and clothing would be given to the newcomers in hopes that they'd survive past the first week. Any money that hadn't been specifically testamented would quickly find it's way into the lord's pocket to fund his campaign. Same with any alcohol.

 _That he would know of that is._

He lowered himself in to the hole and after a while, emerged holding the key to the man's rented room. Such unlawfulness would have made his mother and father back home frown disappointedly, but he had long since stopped believing in leaving the dead undisturbed. In the past two years, he had robbed more than his fair share of graves and turned the pockets of more than a few corpses.

It wasn't like they had shown him the same courtesy in those ruined halls surrounding the manor.

His dog lifted it's head happily at the sight of his return, wagging it's tail excitedly from the affectionate patting it received for waiting so very patiently. The two of them made way towards the edge of the town. An odd spot to have a tavern in, so close to the shadows of the forest, but being the only one within hundred miles propably alleviated the customers' fears of being attacked. Actually, whatever was brave enough intrude upon the tavern would find itself face-to-face with atleast thirty surly mercennaries too drunk  
to fear for their lives, their weaponry ranging anywhere between the most mundane to the very arcane.

Entering, he noticed the annoyed mass of mercennaries and townsfolk, banging on the cellar door. They'd be busy with that for a while. Rising up the stairs, Caunter's room was to third on the right, the longest serving got the rooms closest to the stairs. Unlocking the door, he did not spend long in the room, nor did he let his dog enter.

If they came to suspect a burglary, it would be unwise to leave them evidence, even if it would be himself they'd most likely ask to figure out the culprit.  
Hiding the bottle he had found within his coat, he exited the room. The pouch of coins would get Sodbury a new collar and some proper beef. Maria would get a present when she'd return too.

He spared a quick glance across the hallway to see if there had been any witnesses. _Not a soul._ His eyes lingered on the two doors furthest down the hallway. Behind one of those, the _fine_ lord was sleeping off his sickness. Behind the other, the very same man had sealed the fates of Reynauld and Ferdinand.

When the reputable heir had gathered the seven of them, the most capable and/or trustworthy of them that is, at his "drawing room" as he had come to call the second room he had rented adjacent to the one he slept in, Dudley remembered having a bad feeling about the meeting. When the man had offered them all a glass of his fine sherry, the aged lawman's eyes had wandered past the bottle's label, instead focusing on the portion of sherry that was already gone, the dark under and within the once stoic man's eyes. Since arriving here three years ago, the man had been reduced to a mere shadow of his former self.

As what remained of the fine alcohol was passed around between the eight of them, the man started explaining that he had grown tired of waiting. He wanted to strike their enemy in their heart.

He wanted to take back his manor before the fall.

The houndmaster recalled how long the silence had hung in the room as the guests pondered on their host's ludicrous demand. They'd just finally cleared the last of the roaming dead in the ruins after killing that abominable sorcerer that had been the one bringing them back to life time after time they'd finished their extermination tours.

Just a few weeks ago they'd concluded mapping out the tunnels of the swinefolk, pushed the outlaws out of the woods and hunted down that damned bird creature that had tormented their settlement for the past year. In four months they had done what the ones before them had struggled to do for years, yet there was so much more to be done before they could even think to venture deeper into the lands of the lineage.

 _The mass of living flesh roving those filthy tunnels unchecked, that elusive witch of the weald, the unconfirmed rumour of the malificent spirit haunting the ruins, stealing the souls of it's victims..._

They still hadn't even properly scouted that collection of caverns by the seaside and now he wanted them to delve into the very source of the corruption? _Madness._

That would explain it. The heir had only grown more impatient as of the last few months, sending completely unprepared groups of newcomers to gather relics and gold for the cause. Bitter too, as any group offering a dissenting opinion would discover their supply of torches and bandages less than generous. Further antagonizing from one side or the other usually lead to either suicidal expedition assignments or the soldiers deserting the cause in favor of staying alive. Rumours even had it he was talking to himself behind locked doors.

The man who claimed ownership of that Light-forsaken manor could be just as dangerous and terrible as the things creeping in it's shadow.

Stieber of all people, that stuck up sycophant to his master had spoken up as the voice of reason, but the nobleman had quickly put the rogue back in his place. No matter  
what horrors he'd be forced to see during this war they waged against the otherworldly influence, he'd always treasure the expression Stieber had pulled when their  
employer had called him a spineless coward. _Ah. Warms my heart just thinking about it._

The lousy crook wasn't even half the man Dismas had been, _Light guard his eternal soul_ , no matter how much the newcomer tried to claim the right-hand-man position left open by his departure.

With order restored in the room, the nobleman declared his will.

 _"Take back my manor by the end of the month and delve deep within it's depths before the first of the red leaves."_

If that demand had been insane, what should be said of the people who accepted it?

There was no point in arguing back lest they wished to explore the dungeon at it's darkest. They conceded to the demand and were promptly dismissed.

He simply stared at the door to the nobleman's quarters, until something broke his concentration.

Dudley blinked in confusion as he felt something cold and wet touch his hand. He returned to the present time to find Sodbury pushing his nose against his palm, a low whine escaping the hound's maw. The man couldn't help but smile. His companion was growing bored of the uneventful day and honestly, so was he.

Maria was still not back, nor was the tavern open for any kind of merrymaking. He shifted his coat, feeling the bottle press against his side.

It was far too early for that. _Rather save it for a joyous occasion._

He could go pay a visit to Boivin. Maybe torment the bedbound tippler by slipping loose that Caunter's booze stash in his room was just waiting for the heir's taking.

Perhaps he could find something relatively mundane to do if he consulted the board of announcements by the abbey. There were bound to be some lowlives on the run for him to track down and apprehend.

/-/

* * *

 **I actually got a lot of fun out of writing the Heir's actions loosely based on how I played the game. The growing annoyance as over the times I lost squad after squad, the feeling of dread** **as I came to realize I'd have to start grinding the easier missions with a team of level 3's or soon I'd not have 6's to send to the Darkest Dungeon.**

 **The heir is not evil, but merely frustrated from the failures of the long campaign.  
Sending that 0 level Arbalest-Antiquarian-Bountyhunter-Hellion squad with no supplies was to make money. **

_**Can't you see that I'm doing this for your benefit? Or atleast the benefit of the higher level heroes who I didn't want to risk running torchless-runs into harder missions**. **Trust me, this is a good idea.**_


	3. Flock together

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The clouds sailed past the sun once more, dimming the entire Hamlet. There didn't look to be another breach coming up in the depressing gray gloom spread all over the skies.

The Light had forsaken them for the day.

The weather was always like this, it was as if evening arrived earlier here than in the rest of France. The evening bell wouldn't propably be rang for another hour or so,  
despite the populace already bringing out their oil-lamps and candles. Lying in bed, Boivin gave a feeble tug with his arm, confirming to himself that the leather restraint hadn't inexplicably loosened since the last time he'd tried it.

After the growing unrest amongst the populace of the Hamlet concerning the mental stability of their guests when they returned from their excavations, the staff of the hospice begun zealously applying restraints on any patients who acted oddly, or just spoke in a funny way. He had been brought in to be examined because of a bump in the head and some mild swelling of his feet, but after speaking to them just a few sentences, they grew curious of him.

They said he muttered oddly. They suspected a concussion, or perhaps a possession by a spirit. The man from Wallonia decided it wise to stop talking before they'd try drilling a hole in his skull.

Sighing, Boivin closed his eyes and tried to relax. It wasn't that he couldn't do with a bit of silence, Light no. The fellow troops were far too chatty for his taste whether they were reveling in that piss-stained bar, warming up by the campfire or sneaking around in uncharted territories. He had another problem. He was parched.

A proper Light-fearing establishment, this sanitarium, meaning the patients staying here wouldn't just be healing their bodies and minds, but their souls as well. Any vices possible were kept from the patients, though if one were to make a small donation the good deed would be enough to have the scales tipped towards the purity so that a little debauchery could be indulged. Problem was that he didn't have his coinpouch, nor did he have anyone he could ask to fetch it for him from his little hidden stash.

Bonner wasn't leaving the abbey any time soon, the one visit she'd given him when he'd first regained his consciousness she couldn't stop staring at his face with that terrified gape of hers. He still remembered how insulted he'd felt when she'd not so subtly asked if he'd like her to put his helmet back on. It's not like he was a leper for Light's sake!

Only after he'd accepted the veiled request had she somewhat calmed down. What an insult. He was barely thirty summers and because he kept his face concealed by a helmet he still had one so handsome.

Then again, he'd seen her talk to the nuns and nurses and she seemed to stare at everyone like they had just pulled a gun on her, so go figure.

Dudley wasn't much of a choise, in his time serving alongside the man, he'd seen more than a few gems slip in the pockets of that sidepouch of his. You'd think the man were richer, but no. Unlike most of the people here in Hamlet, Dudley's earnings weren't poured into a mug the moment he got a hold of them, however he did have a sweetheart he liked to spend on, not to mention he absolutely spoiled that mutt of his.

No, the moment he'd tell the man where he'd hidden his coinpouch would be the moment Dudley would propably start telling a story of a vily thief he'd just remembered being seen stalking around that very same spot.

He could try and convince the englishman to bring him some alcohol if he promised to pay for it later, and then he could perhaps march down to the heir's room and discuss the terms for the man's relinquishment of his rights to the lands and the property here.

He missed Caunter. Not just because Boivin could trust him to return with his pouch, perhaps for an agreed fee for the good work. Because the old man had died to keep him safe. Because Caunter had left him owing him a favor he'd never get to pay back. A matter of honor. Yes. There were rules between warriors like them, unspoken ones. Perhaps he could find an indirect way of paying back the favor the man had done for him.

Caunter wasn't the only one who had died however, just the latest. Ferdinand and Reynauld were gone too. He had no idea what everyone else had seen in that pompous, abusive armor-clad zealot, but he for one wouldn't lose sleep over the man's departure. All those lectures about watching your step, all the times the man had mocked his companions for setting off the unforeseeable, sneaky traps that littered the various sites of excavation. In their shared travels, Boivin had noted Reynauld's blatant indifference as to whether or not his companions survived their trips or not.

That time Sodbury had gotten it's paw stuck in razorsharp wires would have surely lead to the houndmaster's death had the combined strenght of Boivin and Bonner not held the enraged man from attacking the jeering knight.

 _"If the Light deems you so unworthy as to choose not to shine your path in the shadows, your fate is indeed dark. For all men stumble, but the irredeemable fall."_

It seemed that ironic deaths were abundant out there, perhaps the dreadful creatures fed on hubris? Good riddance either way.

The man hadn't the slightest idea of the unspoken, unwritten rules, for the only things he was interested in were bloating that tumorous ego of his and reading the verses, though the time the man spent studying the latter was purely in service of justifying the first.

That leper was the one he actually felt sorry for. Even if the man had worn his deathwish like a royalty would wear his proud sash, Boivin wasn't quite convinced he'd found the peace he'd been looking for in the end. How would you in a place like that?

He closed his eyes, vivid images of the large black gate in the dark chamber returning to him all too easily. The bright maroon light that radiated from the city beyond it, drawing a crimson line on the stonework leading to the entrance like a royal red carpet laid for them to walk the road to hell on. He remembered how terrified the seven of them had been, staring that doorway like how a child of a farmer would stare his father after finding out just what happened to the roosters once they were old enough.

Whatever was further down the gateway, he hadn't wanted to find out. Thankfully, he never had to. His helmet had hidden his relieved, dumb smile when Caunter and Bonner, despite the fierce objections of the crusader, had ordered Dudley, Stieber and himself to stand guard by the gate's entrance to make sure they'd have an escape route if they needed to fall back.

With that, the party had split, Reynauld leading those he had deemed strong enough for his taste to accompany him to the depths of wherever while Stieber, Dudley and himself held the chamber. As the backs of their companions grew more distant, they had set the camp. Apart from a couple odd noises, their wait was uneventful.

Hours passed, the campfire grew cold and dicing turned tedious. For a while he had thought himself to have chosen wrong, staying in that drafty,  
damp chamber, bored out of his skull. Then he had heard it.

Past the gate, somewhere, the far away echo of a shrill, inhumane shriek. He had ran to the gate, Stieber just behind him to see what was coming.

But there had been nothing. Just a long passageway of crimson stone, stretching to the horizon. They hadn't dared to relax after that scare,  
patrolling between the entrance to the city and the way out of the chamber they currently guarded, knowing fully well which way they'd run no matter where the horror would emerge from.

After what must have been another hour, they finally heard more noise from beyond the doorway. From distance, they could barely see three of their comrades running for their lives. Once they were within shouting distance, Stieber and Dudley had both ran towards them to ask things like: _"What's going on"_ or _"Where's Reynauld"_ , only for the the three of them to scream back at them to seal the gates.

Bonner and Caunter simply brushed past them, Ferdinand struggling slightly behind, the man's careful but determined steps revealing the injured leg he was nurturing.

In the distance, Boivin witnessed the most bizarre tidal wave of deformed cultists and naked madmen, frolicking like there was not a care in their world, followed by a shambling red mass that crushed and also ate anything that got in between it and it's path. Reaching the gateway, he joined the others who had began desperately pulling the doors shut. This however proved difficult, as the large doors

of unidentifiable black metal were as slippery as they were heavy. By the time they had pulled the doors nearly together, they realized to their horror that they couldn't close it from this side, as the smooth material was just not possible to grasp without a good hold, the only good hold being the backside of one of these doors.

He remembered Caunter, usually such calm man shouting the most exotic profanities Boivin had heard in all his years as a travelling mercennary.

Bonner looked through the gate, horrified at the sight of the rapidly encroaching denizens of the other side.

They wouldn't have the time to seal the doors, not through this side. They had all realized this, but nobody wanted to say it out loud.

Nobody wanted to step forward, other than Ferdinand. He sealed the entrance along with his fate.

 _May the Light guard your soul, you fool._

The trip back had been uneventful, the things they had slain on their way mostly still dead like they had left them. This had given them more than enough time to suffer the uncomfortable silence. It wasn't until they had set camp in the ruins when Stieber finally opened his mouth, exclaiming that their lord had gone insane and he had had enough of this foolishness. As much as they disliked the man, at the very least he had broken the awful silence with his insufferable whining.

 _Where is Stieber even?_ The last he'd seen of the man had been right before those bandits had snuck upon them while they had rested. Just before one of them managed to score a lucky hit on him.

After that, there wasn't much to remember, besides flashes of being carried, dragged and being brutalized by the mushroom men.

A soft click broke the silence in the room, as the lock on the door turned.

His eyes fluttered open, scattering what little weariness he had been harboring. His hand instinctively rushed towards the behind of his pillow, before the restraint once more put a stop to the motion.

Thankfully he wouldn't need to repel an ambush, unless he'd somehow spectacularly pissed off the brit without remembering it. Dudley stepped inside, his mutt close in tow.

"So do they make you sleep with that bucket on your head?" Dudley asked, clearly amused. Truthfully he hadn't even remembered he was still  
wearing the thing. His trusty headpiece rarely came off in his line of work, so he'd gotten more than familiar with it's weight and feeling.

"Or did you yourself decide to spare the world your face?" The englishman chuckled, his rather barebones french skills combining with his accent to create a mockery of the language. Perhaps if he kept him talking long enough, the nurses would restrain him as well. He stretched his right hand, though the leathery bond did not let him move the arm far, the dog closed the distance in search of rubs. Which it received a plenty from the bedbound bounty hunter.

"Why is it that your hound is better disciplined than you are?" Boivin deadpanned. The man must have not caught the meaning of the backhanded compliment as he went on to explain the years of work he had put into the proud specimen. As the conversation rolled onwards, he received some news. Stieber had ran off. The fine lord was planning on cleansing the weald in the coming weeks, in hopes of more reliable supply runs and a safe, unobstructed pathway to his manor. Tavern was out of business for a few days, perhaps even a week.

That truly soured his mood, Boivin hadn't had a drop of wine since last week. At this point he'd willingly try whatever the hell those swine brewed in those barrels they kept finding all over the warrens. As if sensing his craving, Dudley pulled out a bottle of wine, clearly enjoying the way the eyes of masked bounty hunter tracked the bottle of fine alcohol. The label had been all but worn out, but he could tell by the seal that the bottle's contents were from one of the wineyards in the colonies. Dudley pulled out two cups, which he soon filled with the dark red liquid.

Boivin attempted to dislodge his helmet by rocking his head back and forth, but to no avail. He wouldn't use a helmet that would come off from such small effort.  
Dudley helped the man by loosening the straps on his left wrist, who immediately used it to remove his headpiece and take the cup from the offering hand.

"So how long will they be keeping you here?" The englishman asked, sipping his wine slowly. His pace was purely to annoy Boivin, who had almost finished his share already.

"Now that you've untied me?" He chuckled, finishing his portion with a single gulp before loosening the straps on his right hand. "Not another night."

"Good to hear." The houndmaster smiled. "Because I have a task I could use your help in." Boivin moved onto the straps binding his feet,  
while Dudley pulled out a scroll from the confines of his coat.

"The tavern's not opening for a while, so here's what I propose..." The englishman spoke as he poured himself a little bit more wine. Having had his share, he pointed the  
bottle's neck towards the bounty hunter like the tip of a blade as he continued on to his proposition.

"You get to keep the rest of the bottle if I get three quarters of the bounty on the quarry." Before the bounty hunter could ask how much gold there even was in the bounty,  
the houndmaster started listing details on the wanted man. Where he was last seen, where he was heading, how dangerous he was. Details like that they'd double check on their own accord anyways and once they'd get in the rough vicinity the dog would do the rest. No, the bounty hunter's only pressing interest was in how much the bounty was.

Upon hearing it, he was not convinced. It did not sound like he was getting the better deal let alone a fair one. The wine was certainly of quality, sure,  
but if judging it's value in gold, he was left sore. Quite sore. He could propably even try hunting this one down himself,  
if it wasn't for the fact that he was hiding away from towns, making the job a perfect fit for a hound's keen sense of smell. _What does he even need me for?_

"I don't really like this arrangement." Boivin let out after thinking a while. "There's better bounties closer that I could track down on my own. Give me one reason to go with you."

Dudley smiled mirthfully.

"Because that's Stieber we're going after."

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* * *

 **I've really gotta learn to write with more dialogue, writing paragraph after paragraph about the world/history/characters without a single scene  
with dialogue just feels so easy to fall into, but I'd assume it can become very heavy reading if it isn't interrupted by dialogue every once in a while.**

 **I spent far too much time googling old english proverbs for chapter titles and old sounding names with meanings to fit the characters with.  
That said, Caunter and Bonner's names I chose simply because those names kept repeating as Man-at-Arms or Vestals in my time play Darkest Dungeon. While Boivin did make a few appearances too, that name I just chose for the tippler connection.**

 **And just as I was about to finish writing this, I checked the game's files and found that Dudley's name actually is in the game. Neat. So after all that  
googling I did, five out of seven names featured in this story are already in the game. Time well spent.**


	4. To those who wait

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 _I surrender. I sacrifice. I push and I push. **So this place becomes my tomb.**_

 _I slash. I cut. I shout and I grunt. **So I won't start to regret.**_

 _I stop. I listen to my beating heart. I'm alive and breathing. **So I hide.**_

 _I rest. I pray. I cry and they find me. **So I run wild.**_

 _I hack. I sever. I rend and I mock them. **So they'll remember me.**_

 _I'm too much for them. I'm unstoppable. I rip and I tear. **So tired.**_

 _Live. Fight. Struggle. Kill._ I don't know how many hours I have been down here, fighting them, walking down these identical lengths of parapets that seem to wall off nothing but the black abyss between them. This city of insanity was not satisfied with merely taking my life, stealing my sense of time as well.

 _I cannot keep track of the hours of my stay. No matter. Instead I shall measure my stay in their blood._

I hear more of the naked fools frolicking towards me from behind a corner, chanting and babbling in their demented delirium. I grip my trusty sword,  
waiting until they're close enough that they won't have time to react. I chop and I hew the madmen, their screams ranging from confused to horrified to happy.

Tis not a fight, but a massacre and a very swift one at that. I collapse from the exhaustion, leaning in support to the one thing I have always been able to trust.  
Soon my weight is too much to bare and I fall on top of my blade.

 _I lay down but I cannot sleep. This place won't let me. My head swims._

Struggling back on my feet, I rise from the mess of gore my furious onslaught has spread across the stones of this enormous, endless labyrinth.

One of the severed bodyparts is twitching, so I strike it till it stops. The echo of the hits reverberating through this place leads my gaze as I study the sights. This place is enormous, far bigger than it by rights should be possible to be hidden within the cliffs under the manor. Tall pillars of metal I think to be iron rise from the darkest depths and run all the way to the cavern's top, but at places it feels like they run much further than even the tallest cathedrals.

As my eyes track the roof's uneven form, I start feeling as if I'm about to fall, just merely from glancing at the highest pillar in my vicinity. Marveling at the view, I walk the path for what feels like hours, before I run into more of those nude cultists. Raising my sword and readying my stance, I signal to them my intentions. They flail their arms over their heads, muttering and mumbling energetically. They don't even try fighting back as I do my best to make them regret that choise.

When I wound them they rush over to the side of the pathway, holding their bleeding stumps over the abyss, watching their very lives flee them drop by drop. One is even  
crying tears of joy. I execute them while their backs are turned, one after another. I'm uncertain whether I hate or pity them, but it matters not.  
Either way I'd judge them the same. Seeing no immediate threat, I lay down against the side.

 _I sit down. I hunger, but I do not feel weaker. It just hurts._

Even as I feel my strenght return from the earlier fight, I do not feel rested. As I look around the carnage I have left behind, I notice that one of the heads is smiling at me. Whether it's still alive or if it's just stuck in the expression it held until the moment of it's death, I don't know. What I do know is that it bothers me greatly. So I pick it up and drop it into the swirling black depths, watching it grow smaller and smaller until it dissolves into the darkness under my walkway. There is no sound of impact, not that I really expected one. Neither did I expect the sound of footsteps coming from my right.

Turning towards the sound, I spot figures that weren't there before. They point at me and mutter things between one another. Before they do anything untoward,  
I've already crossed the distance and cleft the one in the golden helmet in twain. The remaining two cloaked figures throw their robes aside.

They show me their horrific forms, but mine is hideous too, they do not scare me.

I rush towards them in blind fury, my blade resting on my shoulder. One of them throws it's elongated, snake like arm at me,  
but I twist myself to heave my sword's edge into it's path, cutting it in two before it can reach me. The creature hisses in discomfort, nursing what's left of its severed appendage.  
The other reels back and leaps at me. Just barely dodging to the side, I run my blade through it, listening to it's shriek as I push the blade into it's hilt, before quickly pulling it out and sending it's fetid blood flying in an arc above us as I swing my sword from below my knees to the very highest I can lift it, before bringing it down on what I can only pray is it's head. It writhes in agony, tentacles whipping and constricting like wounded snakes, but it is still very much alive. I turn around to face the other horror.

 _ **-THUNK-**_

I don't know what part of it hit me, but the surprise attack knocks me back, sending me backpedaling into the wall. My armor makes a low clang as it hits the masonry,  
which for a moment makes my heart race in horror as half of it crumbles and falls into the abyss behind me. I can barely breathe from the first attack but I already see the second one coming. Before I can duck or reach for my fallen weapon, the fiend has ran up to me and jumped on top of me. I can feel it's teeth burrowing into my arm, it's two tentacles constricting around my neck. In panic I redirect the newly gained weight on top of me into the side of the parapet, but all I accomplish is hurting my own head as we  
ruin more brickwork. My lungs burn and my strenght drains. In desperation I grab the tentacles around my neck, but they do not budge. As I claw the appendages in vain,  
I realize the creature's grip is far too strong.

 _But what of it's flesh?_

My fingers dig into the tentacle, sinking deeper and deeper. I grip hard, feeling as it's skin begins to give, until finally, I feel the moisture trickling into my palms. The creature stops biting my arm, choosing instead to scream its pain into my face. The first tentacle, now mangled beyond use, uncurls and falls off me, hanging from its side. I grab the other tentacle, but before I can do the same to it, the creature lets loose of my neck in favor of curling around my torso. My hands act faster than my mind, coming between my face and it's head, holding back the rows of teeth as the maw gnashes just inches from my face.

Holding itself on top of my chest, it pushes towards my face, forcing me backwards until I hit that very same masonry it first threw me against. The impact topples me over, my  
back laid on the bricks while my head hangs over the abyss. The monster has fallen over the edge, held dangling by a tentacle wrapped around my chest and my shoulder. It's either hoping to pull me to the depths with it or trying to get back up, but I make my own desire clear as I begin tearing it's limb, enjoying the whine it gives when the tentacle  
splits from the middle of my chest, sending the creature into the unknown. I almost fall over from exhaustion right there and then, but the other creature is still alive.

I stand over it, hacking it into pieces until it stops moving and after a while it finally gives out a sound I accept as it's deathrattle. Looking for rest I crawl against the ruined bit of wall, leaving a trail of blood in my wake. It's mostly theirs. As I collapse against the stonework, my armorplate comes loose, clattering as it falls to the ground besides me. It's leathery ligaments must have been severed when the thing tore into me. I discard the useless piece of metal. While regaining my breath, my strenght, I try to remember the faces of those I doomed myself for. I remember the kindness they showed me, the comradery. I also remember the horrified stares and the mocking. I recall names.

 _But I do not remember their faces. It saddens me._

How long have I been down here? It feels like hours, maybe even days, but regrettably, I am not sure. I cannot keep count. I look towards the red horizon, but there is no sun to  
herald the beginning or the end of another day. I stare into the crimson until I grow bored of it.

As I start getting back up, I spot movement in the mess I made of the other squirming horror, prompting me to pull out my rusty, blunt weapon. My beloved blade falls upon it, splitting it in half over and over again until it stops moving again. Once my frenzied cutting comes to an end, I turn around to find another of it's kind. Perhaps it is the very  
same one I sent hurtling into the pit. I fall upon it like it was. It shows me it's malice and hatred, but my wrath towers over it. So too does my strength. The fight ends  
like it did the first time.

I limp away from the carnage, not intending to give them any more chances. My sword is broken, short and dull. It can still serve me for a while longer.

Soon enough I run into some more cultists, adorned in their golden helmets. The metal is weak like their flesh. I cleave and I slash until there is nothing left of either them or my weapon. My trusted, beloved blade is but a ruined handle, so I throw it away. As my arm finishes its arc, I feel a sting in my chest. With all the blood I've spilled all over myself, a wound in my chest almost goes unnoticed. Removing what's left of my torn bandages, I inspect the wound with my shaking hands. It runs deep. I sit down, happy to die like a warrior. Happy to die.

 _I bleed but death doesn't seem to come this way. I feel sick. Soon the wound closes itself, leaving me sitting in a still pool of my own blood._

Looking into the crimson mirror, my deranged, half-naked form stares back at me. My face has stayed hideous, my skin is still torn by my sickness,  
but it is without a doubt that my body is healing. I want to die. _Now._

So I tear into the veins of my arms, spilling my blood, chewing my sinew and gnawing my bone, but my flesh mends faster than my teeth can dig into it _._

 _It doesn't hurt. The flesh drives away the hunger._ I feel nauseous from just the idea.

However, as time passes, the hunger returns yet again. I cannot help it, no matter how disgusting it feels to devour my own flesh, the hunger feels worse. My flesh  
doesn't nourish me, but it makes my forced stay here slightly more tolerable. Eating my own sickly meat, wandering the labyrinth, I eagerly look for my executioner.

I think to have found it, when a congregation of the giggling madmen come skipping towards me in the distance and I rise up to meet them. A last stand. Like a mangy attack dog I jump on top of the first one, sinking my teeth into his throat, but he just laughs as I beat him with my fists and wound him with my teeth. They surround me.

There is no fight left within me. Where my flesh is now willing my mind is weak. My arms fall on my sides as I wait for my release from this nightmare.  
Instead they sit down near me. They wail and laugh and cry and howl as they tear into their own forearms like I have done, bleeding all over themselves and staining the stones  
which I have walked for Light only knows how long. As I watch them, I begin to wonder how long I've been down here.

 _I cannot even remember what life was like before this place. I feel sad._

After a long wait, they finally get up and start to wander off. Lacking a purpose, I follow them. We travel for a while. For the longest time there is just walking and nothing more.

Then I hear it. A loud sound rings in the distance, it's loud echo repeating around us. I don't recognize it, but even after all this time, it still feels familiar.  
The others turn their heads. Smiles spread across their rotten features. They rush towards the sound and I follow. More walking. Then we finally see them.

A strange group in odd looking clothes stares back at us, before they begin yelling in their indecipherable tongue. I see so many sharp things,  
their eyes betray their killing intent. I bite my fist in anticipation.

One of the deformed madmen runs towards the new group, flailing his arms above his head, but before any of those strange visitors can lay a hand on him, I've reached him first.

 _I tackle him. I protect him. I stand over him like wall of flesh and I welcome the sharp edge of the weapon as it cleaves right into me. **So I can finally be free.**_

/-/

 _ **The end.**_

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* * *

 **My original idea for the ending I had was actually that the Leper would have become content in the darkest dungeon, after realizing his lepracy  
was healing and there was no more pain. He wouldn't so much have gone mad and become one of the Rapturous Cultists as he would have simply found his refuge, he wouldn't have cared of the new god's reign of terror or the fate of the world, instead he would have just walked the hallways, happy to have found his spot under the sun.**

 **In the end, I instead opted for this, because I much more liked the idea of him roaming the dungeon with the Rapturous Cultists not because he had gone insane or began to consider them a family of some type over the immeasurable and uncertain amount of time he was stuck in there, but because instead he simply lost hope and is just following them because he has nothing else left.**

I had such trouble coming up with a name and a description for this story, because I had kinda written these as little aftermath stories, but then I  
found myself unable to think of a connecting name. Yeah, Failed Expedition seems to fit it, but when I was trying to come up with a name for the fic  
way back I posted the first chapter, I was certain such a simple name would have been taken a million times by now in the Darkest Dungeon category.

 _"March"_ was a strong contender, first chapter being about the literal marching, while I could have fitted the second chapter to be  
about the nobleman's plans and the month of March being the rough timeframe. Nothing much for the third or the fourth chapter though.

Worse was the description, as I didn't want to simply write something like _"Aftermath of an unfortunate expedition as seen through the eyes of the_  
 _mercennaries."_ or something. I really hope the description I went with in the end didn't misrepresent the story, but I felt it was a good one.

 **I do tend to ramble on in these epilogue things I notice. I just really like reading the oddbits of trivia people have about their stories and  
their justifications for the choises they made in their tales, so it's hardly a wonder I imitate that practise, if a bit excessively.**


End file.
